


The Doctor and the Bioloid

by truthtakestime



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Farscape
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Minor Character, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Sunny is kind of a companion i guess, the Doctor saves everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 22:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthtakestime/pseuds/truthtakestime
Summary: The Bioloid doesn't know how long she's been drifting in space when the Doctor finds her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Aeryn's bioloid literally only got like ten minutes of screen time, if that? But a while ago I found this fic (I wish I could remember where) where instead of shooting her, Moya's crew rehabilitated her? That was sort of what sparked this. That and my headcanon that whenever a character I like dies, the Doctor actually saves them at the last possible second. You know, the usual stuff. 
> 
> This story is so old, I have no idea why I didn't post it years ago? Even though I'm probably the only person who cares. (IuvenesCor aside, because she is beautiful and supportive and the best.) All mistakes are mine.

“Well, would you look at that? Oh, you are gorgeous now, aren't you?”

The Bioloid feels all of her circuits spark suddenly back into working order. Her body bucks without warning as too much stimuli assaults her limited senses. Her audio pickup is tuned far too loud, making far away voices scream in her ear. 

Wait. Not far away. The nerve endings under her skin are all sizzling from recent touch. She is warm, so unlike that icy void of space she'd been left to drift in, deteriorate. 

_(Wrong. Sun cannot tolerate heat. React accordingly.)_

There are warm fingers on her forehead, pushing hair back away from her face. Her half melted face. 

Programmed reflexes that match Aeryn Sun's jerk her arm up before her backup processor has worked through the implications. She catches a wrist. Collects data. 

_(Strong. Bony. Likely Human or Sebacean. Peacekeeper equivalent: field tech. Assessment: minimal threat.)_

She's in no danger from this life-form. 

The Sebaceanoid continues to make noise, but her translation program is not as sophisticated as translator microbes and she can make nothing out. When her backup processor finally catches up with her hearing, it suggests that the sound is laughter. 

_(Audio data inconclusive. Visual confirmation required.)_

The Bioloid opens her remaining eye. 

“Hello there!” The face hovering over hers looks young and decidedly Sebacean, and the accent is familiar if not quite right. Eyes are bright, mouth is twisted in that difficult and strange shape called a smile, garments are unfamiliar. The Bioloid ticks off observations from the criteria the Scarrans implanted in her, and from the limited depths of Sun's own memory that she was able to absorb during her creation process. 

_(Features similar to both Sebacean and Human. Garments unknown. Voice Sebacean. Language unfamiliar beneath translation. Vessel unknown.)_

_(Tentative identification: Sebacean or Human. More data required for definitive conclusion.)_

The man is still speaking, babbling words that the Bioloid recognizes in only an abstract way. 

“Well you don't talk much, do you?” he asks. “Not that I blame you right now, of course; must be a bit difficult getting thoughts across in your current state. No worries, though; I've stimulated the regenerative abilities in your cells and circuits. Should have a full face again by the end of the day! I'm the Doctor, by the way. I doubt you've heard of me – never quite made it out to the Scarran Fringe – but I admit that I'm a bit in awe of you, it's rather like meeting a celebrity. Aeryn Sun, right? Or at least a version of her. Oh, how delightful! Never have managed to run into anyone from Moya before, though I'm keeping my hopes up. But you, you are just _magnificent_!” 

He reaches out with the other hand to touch her again, and the Bioloid catches that one too. 

_(Knows too much, mission integrity compromised – )_

_(No.)_

_(Mission already a failure. Identity discovered, Moya gone, Crichton lost. Personal status: defective.)_

“Not...Aeryn Sun,” she grinds out. “Copy. Defective. Termination advised.” 

“What?” There's a word to describe the look on his face, the inflection in his voice. Upset? Scandalized? Horrified. “No! I could never... Haven't you been listening to a word I've said?” 

_(Observation: persistent, emotional. Sebacean roots unlikely. Human?)_

“You know what I am,” she says, each word a struggle to form correctly. Personal analysis reveals a damaged vocal adapter. “My mission –”

“Of course I know what you are!” He snorts. Straightens the peculiar twist of fabric on his collar. “You're a Bioloid! And as I've said before, you are just _fantastic_. I've never seen anything quite like you!” 

“Defective,” she repeats, more forcefully this time. Lets go of his wrists and pushes away. “Mission status: failure. Termination advised.” 

The man – the Doctor – frowns at her, pulls a slim metal tool from inside his coat and flips it absently between long fingers. His eyes brood. 

_(Observation: eyes similar to Crichton. Wormholes, knowledge. Connection? Analysis required.)_

“They programmed you to say that, didn't they?” he asks, his voice suddenly serious and quite sad. “You really believe that the only purpose for your existence is to complete this utterly ridiculous mission.”

The Bioloid feels her muscles try to frown, difficult with half a face. Of course she believes this. This is what she was created for; the mission is everything, and the mission is failed. There is no further purpose. Deactivation is prudent, expected. Necessary. 

“Engineered for the mission,” she tells him, because it's the simplest explanation. “Primary function.” 

“Oh, but you can be so much more!” The Doctor throws his hands in the air, another Crichton-like gesture. 

_(Physical similarities: coincidence or connection?)_

“You have such _potential_ ,” he continues. The waving hands take on a more frantic pattern, then all of the energy is channeled into the right one. The left drops into his lap and fiddles with the tool again. He seems incapable of stillness. 

“I can help you, you know,” he offers. “I'm really rather good at that bit – used to be, anyways – finding the potential in people, bringing it out. I could give you my resume...on second thought, maybe I shouldn't do that, it's over nine-hundred years long...”

The Bioloid's programmed resolve start to slip as he keeps talking, something that would not have happened to the real Aeryn Sun. She frowns again. The Doctor is introducing concepts that were not manufactured in her mind. Individual potential. Assistance without regard to personal gain. Choice. _More_. 

_(Observation: subject not defined by the mission. Lacks motive to offer assistance. Anomaly. Further data required. Analysis required.)_

“Why?” she interrupts. “Why assist? I am...defective.” 

The Doctor looks at her with those dark, sad eyes, and she sees age. Ancient eyes in a boyish face. Not quite so much like John Crichton anymore. It's suddenly unclear whether this is a positive or a negative observation. 

He sighs and runs a hand through messy hair. “Well, we're all a little bit defective anyways, aren't we?” He offers her a hand and tugs her gently to her feet. “Come on. I've got plenty of room; lets find you a place to stay.” 

The Bioloid follows him, keeps hold of his hand as her equilibrium adjusts. It's more difficult than it should be, but then she's running only on her secondary neural processor and that has to take the full brunt of controlling her body, her artificial memories, her programmed personality which suffers the most, the healing process that the Doctor has begun, and data collection and analysis. 

There is a significant amount of processing power currently on this latter task, observing her surroundings for the first time. 

“What manner of vessel...is this?” she asks, her single eye roaming the expanse of unfamiliar technology. It's smooth and sleek and unlike anything that Aeryn Sun had ever encountered.

The Doctor glances back at her with a bright smile. “You like her? She's a TARDIS! Last of her kind. Beautiful though, isn't she?” 

_(Vessel: TARDIS. Unfamiliar. Further data required. Analysis required.)_

“And...your neck ornament?”

This time, the Doctor looks downright proud. He makes a show of straightening the item on his collar. “Oh, this? It's a bowtie. Bowties are cool.” 

“Cool...” She reaches out to touch it with a finger, but there is no significant difference in temperature. She raises her available eyebrow in question, a Sebaccean expression.

“It's a figure of speech,” he laughs, taking her hand again. “We'll have to work on that. What do I call you, by the way? 'Bioloid' is hardly a decent name, but you were a bit touchy when I called you Aeryn earlier, too, and I don't want to offend you in any way. So how about it? You can pick any name in the universe, anything at all! Except Byron; dreadful name, Byron. Not a fit name for a pet, let alone a person.” He shudders. 

He offers her any name in the universe, but she knows so few. So little history. 

“Sun, for now,” she decides, too exhausted to try to think about it. The last name is easier to stomach than _Aeryn_ ; that just brings back the image of John's face, so angry and scared before he shoots her. She shies away from that, buries it deep. The human Crichton's feelings are irrelevant to the mission. “It is all I know.” 

“Hm, alright then. I like Sun. Can I call you Sunny for short? Well, it's longer, but it sounds nice. Oh! Have you ever had a jammy dodger?” 

o

While her internal chronometer is no longer accurate after her long drift in space, the Bioloid estimates that full regeneration takes close to two solar days. The Doctor gives her a mirror, and she can't help but stare, because Crichton had terminated her and yet she is whole again. Physically whole, at least. Internally she is less so. 

Much of Aeryn Sun's personality had been controlled by her primary processor, memories and motor functions routed through the backup. The intent with this design had been to maximize the illusion, to make a hastily-created Bioloid as realistic as possible. But it backfires badly now; the loss of the central processor means that all of the imprinted personality is lost, and the Bioloid has nothing with which to replace it. She has the knowledge and the reflexes, but can no longer act the part. 

She finds herself angry at the loss, resenting the Scarrans for leaving such a gaping flaw in their planning that makes her incapable of completing her mission. 

_(The mission is everything. Insufficient resources provided. Analyze: mission failure due to personal performance or Scarran insufficiency?)_

She wonders if Aeryn would have been able to pull such a task off anyways, if she could have succeeded had the personality imprint remained intact. If the Scarrans had had current data about the Sebacean's pregnancy. 

The Doctor notices her frustration, something that contradicts his normal displayed behavior. More often than not he is oblivious to anything but his own babbling monologue, yet he asks her what's bothering her. “You seem unhappy, Sunny. What's wrong? Not sick of me already, are you? Most people take at least a month to get bored.”

Sun shakes her head, a programmed response. “It is not you,” she says, and finds that she is not irritated with him. Aeryn would have been. “I am...empty. When Crichton destroyed my primary processor, Sun's personality imprint was also destroyed. There is nothing left to replace it.”

“Oh, but don't you see? That's wonderful!” 

One eyebrow arches, a common expression in Aeryn's repertoire. “It is another defect. The imprint is vital to the mission, but it was easily destroyed. The probability of success without the central processor is non-existent. Why would the Scarrans not plan for this possibility?” 

The Doctor scoffs, reminding her that he has suggested before that he is not over-fond of Scarrans. “I expect they thought you'd succeed and it wouldn't be an issue. And if you were discovered...well, a new personality imprint wouldn't make Crichton trust you if he already knew you were a fake, would it? Lucky they didn't plan on _me_ stumbling over you.” 

“Lucky?” The Bioloid tries out this word. It's not a concept that she's familiar with; it's an abstract idea in Aeryn's memories of Crichton, but it has no substance.

“Yeah. Not that I believe in luck, mind you! Well, no, I believe in _bad_ luck, but...Oh, that's not the point, is it?” He grins, a big ridiculous grin that lights up all the way to his brooding eyes. “The point is that what you've got right now is _exciting_. You're a blank slate! You've got an opportunity to discover your _own_ personality instead of being handed one freeze-dried and pre-packaged. Boring! You've got the much more fun chance to _become_ instead of just to be.” 

“I do no know how to do this.” The Bioloid frowns. “I am not programmed for independence.” 

“Well then they shouldn't have based you on Aeryn Sun then, should they?” The Doctor chuckles. “Come on, Sunny! Haven't you ever wanted to see the universe?” 

He's asked her this more than once in the two solar days that she's been with him, and she's certain that he knows her answer by now. “Exploration is not the mission.” 

“Neither is traveling with a mad man in a box, but you're doing that anyways.”

The Bioloid opens her mouth to reply, then pauses because she doesn't have an answer for that. 

Logically, there is no reason for her to stay with him now that she's healed. She should either find a way to return to Moya and complete the mission, or return to the Scarrans for deactivation. And yet she makes no effort to leave. 

“Why do you call it a box?” she asks instead, because this is safer. Data to analyze, to study. Familiar territory instead of un-programmed questions. “I thought this vessel was called a TARDIS?”

“Hm?” the Doctor blinks at her. “Oh, well, she is. But she's also a box, it's hard to explain. Bigger on the inside, you know.” 

The Bioloid doesn't know, and she tells him as much. The Doctor's eyes widen at that, and his expression is almost comical.

“I've not yet taken you out of the TARDIS,” he realizes with what appears to be genuine astonishment. “And you weren't exactly in the best condition when you first stopped in. Sunny, this settles it. No arguments, we are going on an adventure! We are going to explore and make friends and _run_ , and you are going to see the outside of the TARDIS and what makes her so special and unique. And we are certainly not reading the directions!”

She knows that she should feel frustration or anger at the Doctor for dragging her off with him while the mission is continuing to fail and she becomes obsolete; but there is an odd pull in her chest where there should be no sensation, and the word for it is on the tip of her tongue. 

She follows him around the control room, grasping at a word just out of reach.


End file.
